William Allingham Quotes
William Allingham presents breezy, nature-rich verses that lift the spirit of poetry lovers.
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Up the airy mountain, Down the rushy glen, We daren't go a-hunting, For fear of little men.
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Winds and waters keep A hush more dead than any sleep.
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Now Autumn's fire burns slowly along the woods And day by day the dead leaves fall and melt.
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Autumn's the mellow time.
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Oh, bring again my heart's content, Thou Spirit of the Summer-time!
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Scarcely a tear to shed; Hardly a word to say; The end of a Summer's day; Sweet Love is dead.
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Tantarrara! the joyous Book of Spring Lies open, writ in blossoms.
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Mary kept the belt of love, and oh, but she was gay! She danced a jig, she sung a song that took my heart away.
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Pluck not the wayside flower; It is the traveler's dower.
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Now Autumn's fire burns slowly along the woods, And day by day the dead leaves fall and melt, And night by night the monitory blast Wails in the key-hole, telling how it pass'd O'er empty fields, or upland solitudes, Or grim wide wave; and now the power is felt Of melancholy, tenderer in its moods Than any joy indulgent Summer dealt.
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Poor Paddy of all Christian men I think On basest food pours down the vilest drink.
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Fairies, arouse! Mix with your song Harplet and pipe, Thrilling and clear, Swarm on the boughs! Chant in a throng! Morning is ripe, Waiting to hear.
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Does not the latent feeling that much of their striving is to no purpose tend to infuse large quantities of sham into men's work?
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Sin we have explain'd away; Unluckily, the sinners stay.
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History of Ireland--lawlessness and turbulency, robbery and oppression, hatred and revenge, blind selfishness everywhere--no principle, no heroism. What can be done with it?
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Soul's Castle fell at one blast of temptation, But many a worm had pierced the foundation.
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Politeness costs nothing. Nothing, that is, to him that shows it; but if often costs the world very dear.
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A man who keeps a diary pays, Due toll to many tedious days; But life becomes eventful—then, His busy hand forgets the pen. Most books, indeed, are records less Of fulness than of emptiness.
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Bare twigs in April enhance our pleasure; We know the good time is yet to come… Bare twigs in Autumn are signs for sadness; We feel the good time is well-nigh past.
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I have been an "Official" all my life, without the least turn for it. I never could attain a true official manner, which is highly artificial and handles trifles with ludicrously disproportionate gravity.
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The mother's kiss is the sweetest thing ever.
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Writing is learning to say nothing, more cleverly each day.
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Ring-ting! I wish I were a primrose, A bright yellow primrose blowing in the spring! The stooping boughs above me, The wandering bee to love me, The fern and moss to creep across, And the elm-tree for our king!
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One who can see without seeming to see-- That's an observer as good as three.